Prompt Post No. 12
Welcome to Round 12 of the Inception Kink Meme.
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He laughed and picked a cigarette out of the pocket of his ratty jeans. “You’ve got quite a mouth on you, sweetheart. Bet it gets you in all kinds of trouble, eh?” He gestured with the lit end of his cigarette. “What are you supposed to be, anyway? Boy scout?”
Robert bristled, picking irritably at his shorts. “Do I look like I’m going to sell you a box of thin mints?”
Anyway, it hadn’t been his brilliant idea to enroll in parochial school where they lectured you about sins of the flesh one minute and dressed you up like a twinky little tart the next. And people wondered why the Catholic Church got such a bad rap.
“Bit of a smart-arse, aren’t you?” Muscles commented. “Anyway, it’s girl scouts that sell cookies, mate.”
"Whatever."
So maybe his responses were a little unbalanced, but god, that voice was killing him; low and smooth like the purring of a car engine, and obviously not a product of American Suburbia. That accent had no right to make him as flustered as it did. Fucking hormones. Still, it was nice to be talking to someone who probably had little to no interest in getting him to accept Jesus as his personal lord and savior. And that mouth. Jesus Fucking Christ-pardon the blasphemy-but it was beginning to give Robert ideas, none of them good.
Standing there was making him feel like a complete idiot, though. Really, who just stood there and watched someone smoke? It was like he wanted the whole world to know he was a clingy loser in desperate need of a good make out session. Or more. With hands like that, huge and thick-fingered, Robert could definitely go for something a little more serious. On second thought, maybe something a lot more serious. Sixteen was legal in England, after all, the fact that they were currently on American soil notwithstanding.
There were a lot of inconvenient facts he was prepared to overlook for the greater good.
Not that it was any time to be thinking about maybe-someday-how-about-tomorrow getting defiled by this utterly gorgeous and (Robert hoped) morally lax tank of a man. Hiding your boner behind your schoolbag, and having it look natural, wasn't exactly a cakewalk-even when you'd had as much practice as he had. Desperate times and all that.
If his neighbor thought it was strange to have a gangly Catholic schoolboy staring at him while he smoked three cigarettes to the filter, he didn't show it. He ground the last one out under the heel of one ratty, red sneaker.
“I’m Eames, by the way," he said, holding out his hand, nails caked with dirt and grease and who even knew what else.
Robert eyed it warily for a moment before shaking it. Just to be polite. Definitely not so he could jerk off with that hand later.
“Robert.”
“Mmm, Robert,” Eames said, lips spread in a lazy smile.
Robert didn't know what was stupider-the way Eames' less-than-perfect smile turned his knees to jelly or the way hearing his name purred back at him made him wish desperately for a recording device. Both seemed to pose a serious threat to his braincell count.
“Can I call you Bobby?”
"Absolutely not."
The last time someone had called him Bobby, he’d been making mud pies to sling in the faces of unsuspecting playground-goers. Robert wasn't the best judge of ages, but Eames looked like he had a good ten years on him at least. Possibly more. The last thing he needed was a nickname making him feel younger than he already was.
“Could you give me a hand with something?”
Hand, mouth-he was happy to oblige. “Sure.”
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Or creeping.
He didn’t seem to be especially talkative, but Robert didn’t mind prompting him. Put through a cost-benefit analysis, he was sure the trade-off would do quite spectacularly. Even his dad would have approved-if he weren’t violating his parole and being queer all over the place, anyway.
“So,” he said after a long stretch of silence, “is this thing ever going to run?”
“Gavin here? He runs just fine.” Eames mopped at the sweat on his brow with the red bandanna Robert had seen in his pocket earlier. “Just needs a few minor adjustments before he’s road-ready, yeah?”
Robert fixed him with a blank stare.
“The bloody hell is that look for?”
“You named your bike.”
“Yeah, and?”
“You named it Gavin,” he elaborated, in the voice of one tasked with reporting a revelation. Because it kind of was, really. Most guys named their chosen mode of transportation after a woman, as far as Robert knew.
Eames grinned. “What can I say? I like the feel of a nice, sturdy bloke between my thighs.”
“You are so immature,” Robert said, meaning something quite different.
Something more along the lines of ‘Holy shit, I am so turned on right now.’ It was only through the combination of sheer force of will and a deep-seated fear or rejection that he managed not to offhandedly suggest that Eames take him for a ride any time.
He might not be sturdy, but he was a new model. That had to count for something.
Robert mentally facepalmed. Bad metaphors never signaled anything good. Usually just that he was miles in over his head and sinking ever deeper into the quagmire of teenage infatuation.
“You know a lot about bikes, then?”
“Not really.”
He did, however, know that he liked tattoos, British accents in all varieties, and things he was sure his father wouldn’t approve of, which wasn’t really difficult, considering that he approved of pretty much nothing that had more than a snowball’s chance in hell of capturing Robert’s attention.
Granted, Eames had pretty horrible tattoos, but they were plentiful. Good enough.
“Hand me the wrench, will you?” Robert dug it out of the toolbox for him. “So, I suppose you’re about what-fourteen, fifteen?”
“Sixteen, but nice try.” Jerk.
Eames murmured with what Robert hoped was vague interest and not utter boredom. “Sixteen, really.”
“If I was going to lie, I’d make up something a lot more interesting than that.”
Eames chuckled, lapsing back into silence. A man of few words. Not that Robert minded, really. Talk was cheap. And if the scenes looping through his mind were any indication, so was he.
Being a hopeless virgin in suburbia was hard, okay?
“So, uh, are you here for good or just for a while?”
“Sorry?”
“I mean, are you here on a temporary visa or…?” Did everything he said have to come out so stupid? And creepy, now that he thought about it. Definitely a little creepy and overeager.
Robert wasn’t sure if it was what he said or if Eames was just finished, but he stopped what he was doing and stood up. Overshadowed by Eames’ bulk, he was struck by the sudden urge to flee.
“What’s it to you?”
“No reason,” he said, quickly. “Just curious.”
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Eames started laughing abruptly. “You’re barking up the wrong tree.”
“What?”
“Go play with boys your own age, Bobby,” he said. “You couldn’t handle me.”
He left Robert gaping at the sight of his retreating (and absurdly muscular) back. Go play? Was he five or something?
“Anyway,” Eames called over his shoulder, “don’t you have homework to do?”
He closed the door and left Robert fuming. After a minute of indecision, he kicked over Eames’ stupid, girly toolbox and stomped off a few paces before calling back, “I told you not to call me Bobby. And it’s summer vacation, you stupid asshole!”
Fine. He didn’t need Eames anyway. There were plenty of things for him to do. He looked down at his lap.
Better take care of that first, though.
A/N: I haven't been very good about making my sectioning clear, but um, parts 1&2 are technically the first section before a break, and parts 3-6 constitute the second section. I'll add in a spacer bar next time, lol. Thanks so much for the feedback, guys! You're awesome. More soon if uni doesn't kill me first. <3333333333333333
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"Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned,” Robert recited. He tugged on a stray thread dangling from the leg of his cut-offs, mind already wandering. “It’s been two weeks since my last confession. Give or take.”
A typical Sunday, trapped inside a hot, cramped confessional with his sins on one side and Father Dominick on the other, waiting to absolve him for all the lustful thoughts and other petty iniquities he’d managed to rack up since their last get-together.
"You know, you could really use a spreadsheet to keep all of this stuff in order. Modernize. Swear a covenant with Apple."
Father Dominick ignored him, which was probably for the best, really. "What sins have you committed, my son?"
My son. Robert swallowed hard. No matter how many times he heard it, it never failed to get a reaction out of him. Those two words may or may not have been the inspiration for a climax or ten. Maybe it was just his daddy-issues talking, but there was something delightfully perverse about it. Actually, "delightfully perverse" was probably how he would have classified the entire concept of Catholicism, if pressed. The power dynamics, the honorifics, the apparent fixation on pain and guilt... really, Catholicism was one ball-gag away from BDSM.
Robert mentally shook himself. "Sorry, where were we, Father?"
"Your sins.”
"Right. Right, okay. Not saying my prayers, dishonoring my father, contemplating idolatry, eating shellfish..." Robert ticked them off on his fingers. "The usual, I guess."
"Robert," Father Dominick said, "if you don't plan to take this seriously, you might as well go home."
If he was trying to sound stern, he was failing miserably. On the pissed-off scale, Father Dominick had yet to achieve anything more impressive than Angry-but-Ultimately-Amiable Dad, which was pretty much how he sounded all the time, whether he was giving them a pre-game pep-talk or conducting mass. Robert was privately convinced he'd only taken his vows in a half-assed attempt to teach himself some discipline. How that was working out for him was anyone's guess, but it entertained him to imagine the soul-wrenching struggle of wills between Father Dominick and a pint of Cherry Garcia.
Robert slid back the partition between them a couple of inches, poking his nose in. Sure enough, Father Dominick was fully outfitted even in this heat. He smiled to himself. That was dedication. He settled back, drumming his fingers on the wooden seat for a while.
“Does wanting to sleep with someone count as a venial sin?”
“The Bible says that a man who lusts after a woman has already committed adultery in his heart.”
Harsh, man. Harsh. “So, that’s a no, then?”
“Adultery is a mortal sin,” Father Dominick said carefully, “but I think that’s a little draconian. God punishes our actions, not our thoughts.”
Well, that was comforting. As long as you were one of those people who didn’t have any thoughts worth executing, you’d be fine.
“Can I ask you a question, Father?”
“Of course, my son.”
Robert licked his lips, hesitating. There was never going to be a perfect moment to ask, which probably should have told him something, but what the hell-no time like the present, right?
“Do you think I’m going to hell?”
“For thinking about sex? No.”
“No, I mean, for being… you know,” Robert said, suddenly uncomfortable. “For being gay.”
The pause that followed was shorter than he’d expected it would be. “No.”
“Is that your professional opinion?”
“Those are my personal feelings.”
“Do you have, I don’t know, some kind of textual citation to back up those feelings?”
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For the little things, maybe, but-if Father Dominick’s silence was anything to go on-not for the big things. Not unless he was willing to ship off to East Jesus Nowhere and submit himself to Homosexuals Anonymous, or whatever they called those summer camps where they sent kids like him to be "reformed." And for what? So he could come back talking like Arthur, all hot air and self-righteous bigotry? No thanks.
There hadn’t been any noise on Father Dominick’s side of the confessional for a while. Robert nudged the partition with his foot.
“Hey, did you die in there, Father?”
There was a rustling noise as Father Dominick resituated himself. Signs of life, at last. “Don’t sound so cheerful about it, Robert.”
"You know, I don’t think you’re supposed to use my name in here.” Any excuse to change the subject. What had he even been thinking? Oh, that’s right-he hadn’t been thinking. Not with anything above the waist.
“I’m pretty sure this is supposed to be an anonymous confession.”
"Of course. Forgive me, my son."
“I think it’s Jesus you want to be asking for forgiveness, Father. Not me. But I understand how you might mix us up. It’s all in the eyes. Or so I’m told.”
Father Dominick heaved a sigh. "The lord will not be mocked.”
Maybe it was just his imagination, but Robert could have sworn there were a few extra syllables tacked onto the end there that sounded suspiciously like “you little shit.” Which was just perfect, really.
"Sorry, Father," he said, barely restraining his laughter. He added, "Sorry, Jesus" for good measure.
"He already died once for your sins," Father Dominick replied dryly. "One get-out-of-jail-free card's all you're getting."
“Thanks for the heads-up.”
Father Dominick lapsed into silence again, something that wasn’t unusual for him but was making Robert nervous as fuck today. Robert knew it was just his way of giving him time to reflect and gather his thoughts, but that was cold comfort when you were trying to force your thoughts to scatter like so many wayward lambs.
He'd been thinking of Eames entirely too much lately, to use the term loosely. He didn’t really count the hours he’d logged at the Whackoff Warehouse among his contemplative efforts. Still, even his authentic mental deliberations all seemed to center around Eames, even though that ship had as good as sunk the last and only time they'd spoken. He'd blown it, all right. Not that he'd ever had any real chance in the first place.
He was just some dumb rich kid who lived next door to Eames. No one important or interesting or capable of engaging him, whatever that meant. It was actually pretty fucking depressing, when he thought about it. But when you spent approximately 97% of your time crushing on thirty-something ex-pat mechanics, heartache wasn't exactly unprecedented.
Robert buried his face in his hands with a groan. Today was a day for sobbing along to infomercials and eating marshmallow fluff straight from the jar-not for going to confession.
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“Okay, smart guy, what do I need?”
“A friend.”
Oh.
He probably should have seen that one coming, but it still stung. It wasn’t like he didn’t have friends. He just-okay, no, it was exactly like he didn’t have friends. Most days, it suited him just fine. He didn’t want to pal around with a bunch of Jesus-freaks anyway. Still, his feelings erred more on the side of resigned than content. It hadn’t been any choice of his, after all, but Arthur’s smear-campaign that had effectively lowered him to the status of Untouchable in the eyes of the majority of the student body, aside from the occasional Neanderthal who took “gay” to mean “interested in anything that breathes and has a cock.”
Even he had standards when it came to his bodily orifices.
“Is there something you want to talk about, Robert?” Father Dominick asked after several torturously long minutes. “Off the record, I mean.”
"That might pose a problem, given an omnipresent, omniscient god."
Father Dominick laughed. He'd evidently given up on confessional decorum a long time ago. "You have a good sense of humor, Robert."
"Thanks, I guess.” He was glad Father Dominick couldn’t see the stupidly vibrant shade of red his face had no doubt turned. Compliments were strictly rationed in the Fischer household. “So, are we done here?”
“It’s your decision.”
He wasn’t about to admit it, but sometimes he kind of hated the moments the adults in his life chose to treat him like he was actually a responsible human being. They always seemed to pick the worst moments, when he just wanted someone to tell him what to do and spare him the trouble of dealing with the particulars.
Fortunately, Father Dominick seemed to take the hint.
“I think that’s all for today,” he said, standing and brushing off his robes. “I absolve you of your sins. You may go in peace.”
It seemed too good to be true. “What, no penance?”
"I think you have enough on your plate for a while. You could do with a little fresh air and sunshine."
"See you at practice tomorrow?"
"Ten. Don't be late. And Robert?”
“Yeah?”
“You know you can talk to me about anything that’s on your mind, okay? You don’t need to come to confession for me to listen.”
"Sure, okay," he said. "Maybe I'll take you up on that sometime.”
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A/N: Whew. That's all for tonight folks. I hope you've enjoyed the digression. We'll get back to your regularly scheduled Eames-perving shortly. :DDDDDD
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Practice was uneventful, beyond Yusuf tossing his cookies in the goalie net, thanks to poorly aimed kick from yours truly. It wasn’t the first time it had happened. Really, it was kind of an occupational hazard when you regularly had balls flying toward you at something like 60mph, but who wanted to take the blame for putting the goalie out of commission three days before a big game? Not him.
Robert had delivered a mumbled apology and cut out early under the pretense of a migraine. He wasn't much good to anyone today, anyway. Confession had stirred up a lot of feelings he wasn't particularly keen on exploring at the moment, or maybe ever, and he hadn't managed to get enough consecutive minutes together to jerk off for almost twelve hours, which was practically a lifetime when you were sixteen and, in terms of danger, roughly equivalent to carrying a loaded gun with the safety off and a sticky trigger-finger.
He wondered if Eames owned a gun. He seemed like the type, sort of thuggish and about a hundred different kinds of bad news, the fact that he lived in the same neighborhood as a bunch of stock-trading suits like Robert's dad notwithstanding. Then again, guns were a little passé these days. You could get away with owning one if you were part of the mafia or some backwoods redneck out in the boonies, but for anyone else it was just in poor taste.
Anyway, on second thought, Eames actually looked more likely to use his fists than anything else. He probably fought dirty as hell, too, getting in bar fights for the hell of it and letting guys land punches just to feel the rush of adrenaline. The image of Eames, one eye black, lip split, chin slicked with blood, was definitely not turning him on. Nope. Not even a little bit.
In fact, he was completely over Eames. Totally, definitely over him. Eames had been nothing more than a passing fad. He was history. He was… also standing out in his driveway.
"Damn it!" Robert swore. He dove into a random lawn, ducking behind an especially large and ugly lilac bush.
So maybe it was going to take a little longer to get over it than he’d thought.
He peered out from behind the foliage, watching Eames straddle his bike. Gavin, his mind supplied helpfully. He rolled his eyes. Eames was probably one of those guys who named his penis, too; something stupid like Mr. Happy or Excalibur. How could he find that even remotely attractive? Clearly he needed his head examined. And if that failed to turn up any leads, he probably had a rogue gene somewhere in his DNA that predisposed him to be attracted to men he could never, ever bring home to his dad-even if they hadn’t suffered the tragic flaw of being, you know, men.
At least Eames wasn’t walking around half-naked today. Instead, he was wearing a perfectly serviceable white t-shirt and a leather jacket that didn’t press so much as hammer on Robert’s bad-boy buttons, even at this distance. This, he was forced to concede, was not a crime, unlike watching people from the bushes, which would probably earn him a couple weeks in a juvenile detention center, where they’d eat him alive.
He just wasn’t cut out to be a badass. Not by a long shot. Maybe that was why Eames wasn’t interested in him. Robert frowned into a clump of lilacs, nostrils filled with the fresh, floral scent of loserdom. He didn’t even know what the hell Eames was doing, just sitting there on his bike like he was waiting for something. Or someone. His boyfriend, maybe.
Any boyfriend of Eames was bound to be 6’2”, built like a rugby player, and skilled in the art of chain-smoking. Gangly teenagers need not apply. Robert tore his eyes away and shrugged it off. Whatever. So Eames didn't think he was worthy of debauching. So what? Arthur had quite enjoyed his fumbling attempts at hand-jobs, thank you very much. If Eames didn't want one, fine. His loss.
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